


Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Hands Off

by MizJoely



Series: Twenty Sherlolly Prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2023971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ohmyolicity on tumblr said: Hey! A possesive dark!lock and a sweet Molly. Thank you very much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Hands Off

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this little ficlet is what you were looking for!

Molly was laughing and chatting with Greg Lestrade when a tall, dark thundercloud named Sherlock Holmes swept her into his arms, snarled out a, “It’s time for me to take Molly home now, Gavin” and hustled her out of the room before she could raise the breath to protest.

“It’s Greg, you git!” came the DI’s irritated voice from behind them, then Sherlock was shoving her coat at her and practically dragging her out of the house and over to the dark blue rental car parked by the curb.

“Sherlock! What are you doing?” Molly demanded as he opened her door and gestured impatiently for her to enter. “Why are we leaving so early?”

“Because _Greg_ couldn’t keep his bloody eyes and hands off of you!” Sherlock growled. “Ever since he and his wife divorced, he’s been trying to get you into his bed, and I’m tired of it!” He slammed a fist against the roof of the car, and Molly jumped a bit in surprise.

Ever since the Magnussen shooting and the Moriarty return, Sherlock had been different. Harder, colder, and yet, at the same time, more passionate about things. Quicker to anger, slower to smile or show the pure enjoyment of life he had exhibited so often in the past.

With everyone except her. Until tonight. They’d been at John and Mary’s for a quiet New Year’s Eve party; Sherlock had insisted on escorting her, relieving her private duty guards – the ones he’d insisted that his brother Mycroft assign to her since he considered her a target of Moriarty’s – for the night. Molly had acquiesced, not out of docility or fear, but because she wanted to try and puzzle out what, exactly, was driving Sherlock to such emotional extremes. Surely it wasn’t killing Magnussen; yes, that had been awful, but when he’d explained why he’d done it – with Mary’s permission – Molly understood. He really had nothing to be sorry about; the man was a monster. A different kind of monster than Jim Moriarty, but a monster nonetheless.

Molly shivered a bit thinking about her psychotic ex-boyfriend. If, of course, he could even be called that. Oh, psychotic, no doubt about it, but ex-boyfriend? Did it really count as a relationship if she was the only one who was honestly invested in it?

Irrelevant, unimportant; what mattered right now wasn’t her ex, it was her…well. Whatever she and Sherlock were, which she was still very, very confused about. When he’d burst into the break room at St. Bart’s where she’d been waiting with Greg, after that disturbing broadcast Moriarty had sent out, Sherlock had looked wild, almost terrified. He’d relaxed upon seeing her and Greg sitting together on the ratty old sofa, then scowled and jerked her to her feet, pressing a fevered kiss on her lips and then pulling away with a mumbled apology.

He hadn’t said a word to Greg at the time, she recalled. Not until the DI had started talking about police protection and safe houses. Then Sherlock had announced that his brother had men already assigned as Molly’s bodyguards, and the subject had changed to Moriarty’s back-from-the-dead presence.  


The New Year’s Eve party had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on John and Mary’s part, an attempt to keep their lives as normal as possible now that the two of them were reconciled. Sherlock hadn’t planned to attend, but when Molly insisted she wanted to go – she was temporarily staying at Baker Street, she and her cat Toby having taken up residence in John’s old bedroom on the top floor – Sherlock had decided to come as well. Not only to come, but to escort her. And now he was acting like a jealous boyfriend, when he’d given her no signs that the kiss he’d bestowed upon her six days earlier had been anything more than the result of adrenaline-fueled relief.

“Sherlock,” Molly said as she buttoned up her coat, “what the hell is going on? And don’t give me any nonsense about your being worried about me because of Jim Moriarty,” she added angrily, stuffing her hands in her pockets and pulling out her gloves. “You’ve been acting, well, a bit odd ever since you…kissed me. Which, by the way, I still don’t know why you did it. Kiss me, I mean.”

There. She’d finally said it, brought it out into the open. She fully expected Sherlock to just brush it off, or to ignore her words altogether.

What she wasn’t expecting was the dark glitter in his eyes as he stalked over to her, shoving her body between his and the car. Or the way his hands landed so possessively on her arms, as he lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “Oh, Molly, don’t play coy with me. You know very well why I kissed you.”

“Tell me,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as he ghosted his lips over her throat. The wind was cold, blowing her hair into her face, but she ignored it, feeling a flush of warmth stealing over her body – entirely due to the way Sherlock’s body was so aggressively pressed up against her own. “Please,” she added, curling her fingers into the lapels of his black Belstaff.

Instead of answering, he let out a low growl before turning his head to capture her lips with his own for a punishing kiss. His hand moved up to tangle in her hair, his thumbs resting on her cheekbones beneath her eyes as she opened her mouth obediently to the demanding thrust of his tongue.

The pulled apart after a long, heady moment, both gasping for breath, Sherlock’s hands still possessively cradling her face. He rested his forehead on hers, eyes closed, and they simply stood there for a long moment before he spoke again. “You’re mine, Molly. You’ve always been mine, I just haven’t always had the good sense to recognize it. And no one is going to take you away from me – not Lestrade, not any of those idiots you keep dating, and certainly not James Moriarty.” He pulled his head back and stared down at her, eyes almost unreadable in the near darkness. “Do you understand me, Molly?”

She nodded, unable to speak, her heart pounding as she heard the words she’d longed to hear ever since first meeting the man standing over her so protectively. Yes, he was darker, had more of an edge to him, but he was also still Sherlock Holmes, the man she loved.

And now she knew that, to him, she was Molly Hooper, the woman _he_ loved.


End file.
